


When Night Is Dead

by bbluejoseph



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Day and Night, Insomnia, M/M, Medication, could be viewed as platonic, its not graphic but its there, just a tidbit for u there, my jaw was really clenched while writing this, stuffed animals, this is barely joshler, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbluejoseph/pseuds/bbluejoseph
Summary: The day is safer than the night. Tyler knows this by heart.
Relationships: Josh Dun & Tyler Joseph, Josh Dun/Tyler Joseph
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	When Night Is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically just a vent fic idk what u want from me

The day is safer than the night. Tyler knows this by heart.

His energy levels spike after the sun has gone down. Adrenaline thrives in his veins, making his stomach churn and his hands shake. He paces, down the hallway, through the kitchen, back up around the dining room table, and down the hallway again. 

Or he used to. He still does sometimes, but it’s less frantic now, more of a routine, a repeated action that attempts to soothe his mind.

Sitting in his room during the day is tolerable, but at night it deeply worsens. Tyler knows this is because it his prison as much as it is his sanctuary. He cannot rid himself of it, only avoid it when it becomes stifling, like the summer heat. It drifts in through the window, weighs heavy on his shoulders and in his lungs. 

This is why, each night, Tyler gathers up a bundle of his blankets into his arms. He usually takes three, but sometimes grabs an extra if he thinks it’s going to be cold. He takes a pillow, too, and his water bottle. 

He takes his stuffed dog, too, from when he was little. Its ears are worn, its fur gray, but it is his only company once the sun goes down.

Not that Zack isn’t there, in the room they’re supposed to be sharing. Not that Tyler’s parents wouldn’t help him if he knocked on their bedroom door at night, tears pouring down his face, sobs hiccuping in his throat. They’re all there, but they don’t know his brain the way they know his name. 

So he takes his blankets, and his pillow, and his water, and his stuffed dog, and he sleeps on the floor in the living room. 

It’s not so bad. Really, he considers himself lucky that his parents are allowing it. The floor is hard, so he lays his thickest blanket down first to soften it. Then he himself lays down, pulling his other blankets over him, his pillow tucked under his head, his stuffed dog wrapped in his arms.

He can hear the clock ticking slowly from its place above the window. All night long, always steady, never faltering. Every second that goes by is a second closer to daylight, a second closer to Josh.

Sleep does not come easy to Tyler these days. He has to chase it down, and even once he does, he often wakes several times during the night.

His medication won’t kick in for another two weeks, the doctor says. Tyler has never had a prescription before, never been to the hospital or had frequent checkups. 

Now he does. Now he has to see a doctor, and a psychologist, and a therapist. It’s all new and it all frightens him.

Tyler’s fears creep up on him at night, pulling at his clothes, his hair, exposed flesh and skin. They worm through his brain like parasites, and he struggles to think of other things, to push the bad thoughts from his mind.

Sometimes he sits there, back pressed to the couch, stuffed dog in his lap, and rocks back and forth, trying to be somewhere else.

He thinks of the perfect day. He recites poems or songs. He writes little stories in his head.

Everything is better once the sun has risen. The light is bright, hurts his eyes, but it is a reminder that the night is over, so he welcomes it. He unclenches his jaw, shakes out his weak limbs, and drags his blankets back into his room. 

There are other people around during the day, parents and siblings and neighbors. Tyler has no visitors; they don’t know he’s sick. They’d be ashamed of him.

Josh isn’t ashamed of him. Josh is the only person that comes over. Tyler knows he doesn’t know the extent of his illness, the nerves that creep up his spine and make him shake, but he’s gentle with him all the same.

They play games together on their phones, or they watch tv. Sometimes all the lights and movement make him dizzy, and they just lay next to each other on Tyler’s bed, not talking.

Tyler aches for comfort. He aches to be told he’s doing well, that he’s going to be alright. He aches for someone to pet his hair, scratch his back, rub his shoulder until he falls asleep.

Josh does these things without being asked. Tyler is grateful.

He’s more aware now than he was; more awake. When it first came upon him, it was like a sleeping. He was dizzy, disoriented, exhausted. He slept two hours a night. He struggled to eat. His body shook and twitched and jerked, uttering silent protests. 

Tyler still fears his fears, still struggles with these things, if at a lesser rate. But he has Josh. 

At least while the sun is still around.


End file.
